


>Call Him By His Name

by zarinthel



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen, the gods have forgotten the song of their love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:16:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28860183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarinthel/pseuds/zarinthel
Summary: oh, envy, that brought the sun to crash from the heavens.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	>Call Him By His Name

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this over a year ago. time does fly

_“G’raha Tia!”_

Emet-Selch watches the warrior of light struggle, locked onto his knees as the light surges through him, driving fractures through his soul in every passing second. The color that had so defined him had long been overwhelmed by the pure, awful white, but.. Fool that he was.

Fool that he was, he had hoped. 

Perhaps the Crystal Exarch had some way to reunite the soul. 

Bitter disappointment rises inside him, the souls of his endless dead dancing in front of his eyes, the weight of their silence driving him on. An impossible dream, he had always known. The Ardour is the only way. Though such a traveler from the future clearly has knowledge that Emet-Selch should have, he is nothing, no one. 

Not worth remembering. 

Then why...

Rage causes his hands to tremble on the trigger. 

An image burns behind his eyes, of a different mask. If it were him who had stepped into the circle, to release the _oh so wonderful_ Warrior of Light from the burden on his soul. Him whose mask was blown back. 

What name would move across Valerian’s lips?

He hears the gun fire. 

He watches Valerian’s eyes fix onto him. Half closed from pain, half blinded by the light, they have lost none of their focus. From the first time Valerian had looked at him, his gaze had been that same look-- flat, patient, kind. 

Never doubting his words, always willing to listen to him speak, always looking at him with an unbridgeable distance. Even now that he knows of Emet’s hand in the Lightbringer’s creation, his gaze hasn’t changed.

But Emet-Selch knows that Lightwardens do not see as mortals do, do not live as mortals to, that they are mere husks of already fragmented bits of aether. There’s nothing left.   
Just like he will never see ‘him’ again, so to will he never again see Valerian, that annoying seven-fourteenths of a _real_ person. 

It’s all.. So.. pointless. 

When he had held that strange flesh in his arms and called him his son, he had been a fool. When that mortal had died, he had been twice that. Each marriage, each death-- Dumb, idiotic, pointless! 

Damn them. Damn them all. 

He sneers down at Valerian, brought low to this point, his very soul already broken beyond repair. There’s no coming back from this, nothing that can be done to staunch the wound. 

Yet.. yet still he invites him to the Tempest, and his imagination blooms once more. To have a Lightwarden patrol those ancient streets, feast on its meals in those empty halls, rule from an empty throne. 

It is a mockery of Amaurot. Of all the good that Amaurot stood for, its measured debates, its wisdom, its sacrifice. 

Emet-Selch tells the enchantment Valerian’s name. Valerian belongs here, he tells the attendant. That’s Caligorne, Caligorne with an ‘e’. He’ll need papers. A visa that allows him to stay forever. 

These walls will never fade for as long as he lives, Emet-Selch knows. 

And he is perfect, immortal. 

Together, he and the Lightwarden could await the end of this world. Agape, he thinks, would be the name. He can see it now, the light and the darkness intertwined in the Final Days. 

He waits. 

He waits. 

The bringer of light does not come alone. Despite everything-- his looming demise, his failure, his tragedy-- he stands tall in front of his foolish companions. Emet-Selch can see it in his eyes, the way they glaze over even as he stands. He’s fading fast now, holding back the transformation through force of will alone. 

One more trial will break him. 

...

Why?

Why!? 

As the _Scions_ speak their empty, hollow beliefs.. As they needlessly, heedlessly dash their insignificant bodies against the might of the greatest mage of Amaurot! 

Why does he not speak? Is he hollow even now? The transformation eating away at his insides as it did to the lovely Titania, staining his heart but not his eyes? 

It can’t be. Though Hydelain’s champion can see almost nothing, the weight of his gaze is unchanged from the very first time he had ever laid eyes on the Ascian. The patience, the certainty, the undercurrents of endless violence. It’s all there, the same as it ever was. 

He walks until he can walk no further. 

This moment..

This is Emet-Selch’s victory. With Valerian a Lightwarden, his soul will never return to the lifestream. Hydelain’s champion will never return to her. There will be no one on the Source capable of opposing the Rejoining... he has done what both Elidibus and Lahabrea so utterly failed to do. 

In front of him, the warrior of light smiles. 

No--

“This world is not yours to end,” Valerian says, except Valerian doesn’t sound like that. “This is _our_ world. _Our_ story.” 

No no no nono

“A trick of the light. Nothing more.” 

If it’s him-- If he’s regained enough

_Eight-fourteenths. You can do simple math, right Hades? You’re a genius!_

Of his soul-- 

_Don’t do this, Emet. They don’t have to die. What’s wrong with you!?_

“It can’t be!” 

_It doesn’t have to be_

He won’t let their sacrifice be in vain! 

In his mind, that name echoes. G’raha Tia this. G’raha Tia that. He’ll erase that name after this battle is won. 

He is _Hades_ , lord of the underworld! Here in Aumarot, he’ll bear the weight of their souls. 

..

It’s not enough. 

It’s ugly, embarrassing in his last moments to be unable to maintain the creation magic that powers the city. His robes are his uniform, his mask gone, his city-- ruined. 

Just like Allag, just like Garlemond-- why do they never _last!_ Without him at the helm they all fall apart so easily. 

The clawed hand of his robe touches the gaping hole in his chest. 

In front of him, Valerian pauses, looking around the devastated city in wonderment. 

“It’s beautiful here,” he says. 

Is that-- is that what he will remember of them? A decrepit ruin, surrounded by dawn?

Hades hesitates, and then his mouth quirks up in a smile. 

Yes.. that’s right. 

He is... Hades, lord of the underworld, who guides the souls of the lost.

He does not fear death. 

How could he have forgotten that?

**Author's Note:**

> please comment!


End file.
